Saturn

The same ring as on Earth, on a dais of the local stone and in the colors of this world: whoever set the gates out did it on every world at once. This one sleeps. It answers only one who has brought down the master of this world and lived through its trial; then lay the master's heart, the dust of the road and what this world gives into the ring, and it will join the other gates that are awake.

A distillation platform floating on its own tanks. The intake pipe still reaches into the cloud and the column still ticks as it cools; the crew left when the far corner went under. Something circles beneath the deck.

A six-sided tower of teal cloud ribbed with station trim, standing where the polar storm turns. Nothing else in the hexagon keeps its shape; the tower keeps its own, and the lightning takes the rod on top instead of the stair inside.

A nave of ring ice and cream cloud with a frosted vault and spires of blue ice. The frost raised it in a single night and the night ran out: the west half is finished, the east half is piers and half-begun arches. There is a light on the altar that no one lit.

An airship still tied to its mooring mast, nose in the cup, stern sagging. One day the crew went down the ladder to a light that was burning under the gondola, and did not climb back. The light is still burning.

A slender tower of cream cloud with a gold stripe winding up it, a glass lantern room and a fog bell at the foot. It was built for those who fly in under the rings, where the ice hides the horizon; the light has not gone out.

A line of ice fragments across the cloud, each a little larger than the one before, where a piece of the ring broke up on its way down. The last and largest still has the cold of the rings in it.

The Watchers hung an observatory in the cloud deck under the rings, where the ice overhead hides half the sky and shows the other half as nothing else can. Four tiers lie under its dome: the ring galleries and cells, the halls of lenses, the library with its planetarium, and the lower vaults. They tamed gliders for their fur and penned sharks to dive for pearls. Then they turned the great lens on the hexagon at the pole and found that the storm had a heart, and that the heart was looking back. The Watchers are gone. Something with six rings of its own waits under the lower dome.

A block of ring ice the size of a barge, lying nose-down in the cloud where it fell. The rings shed pieces all the time; this one came down whole. Its heart is blue, and something in the break still glows.

Where the haze is thickest, tholins clump together into amber and the amber keeps growing: stalks, globes and caps on a patch of peach cloud, all leaning the same way the wind goes. The largest clump is hollow at the back.